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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24024205">Eclipse</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/glass0marbles/pseuds/glass0marbles'>glass0marbles</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cop Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eventual Smut, Journalist Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Modern AU, Serial Killers, angst and dare i say it - romance, but they will be maimed, incorrect portrayals of police investigations and journalism, no one will be permanently maimed, okay probably, violations of protocol (quite a few of those probably)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 01:01:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,359</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24024205</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/glass0marbles/pseuds/glass0marbles</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Edit June 2020: Thank you all so much for the comments and kudos on this fic, I am so happy you've been enjoing it. ♥ However, for the time being I will put this story on hold. With the things that are currently going on in the world it has turned kind of sour for me and I'd like to focus on writing other things for now. Rest assured I'll continue working on this eventually, but right now it just doesn't feel right. Stay safe, everyone.</p><p>Summary:</p><p>Jaskier is an investigative journalist and photographer who desperately needs a scoop.</p><p>Geralt works for a special division of the local police department, dubbed ‘the wolves’. They handle especially sensitive and violent cases.</p><p>Young girls have been found dead and mutilated in the area, something the police have been trying to keep under wraps, but not everything could be covered up and Jaskier’s curiosity is piqued. He latches onto Geralt, a grumpy and withdrawn investigator on the case, purely out of professional interest, of course. Until it becomes more than that.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>55</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Eclipse</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So, the police system is mostly based on the one in the UK, simply because I consume more British than American crime fiction, but there is a little bit of everything. I'm taking so many liberties with this. <i>So. Many.</i> If you're not bothered by that, welcome to the ride.</p><p>I haven't written smut in ages, but I plan on attempting it with this eventually.<br/>There will also be graphic descriptions of violence and dead bodies, but each chapter will have separate warning as well.</p><p>Will probably update very slowly at first because I'm busy, but I'm very excited to share this story.</p><p>The first chapter is a bit of a prologue, things will really get started in the next one.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Jaskier curses as the fourth stoplight in a row turns red just as he reaches it. He slams down on the brakes with more force than necessary, cursing again as his body is jerked forward against the seatbelt. The abrupt stop earns him an accusatory honk from the car behind him and Jaskier turns in his seat to shout 'Fuck off!' despite knowing that the other driver can't hear him. It's gratifying to let his anger out on someone else other than himself or his shitty car, but the feeling only lasts until he reaches the next junction in the road and has to stop again. Three cars stand in the middle of the intersection, all turned at various degrees, two of them very much worse for wear and a group of shouting people gathered all around, surrounded by the flashing lights of police cars and an ambulance. It doesn't look like traffic will be moving along anytime soon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier decides that he's had it then and there. He turns sharply and navigates past the line of waiting cars, earning him some more honks and rude gestures, but Jaskier pays them no heed. He stops his car in a smaller lane a few streets away and gets out, taking a moment to breathe before shutting the door to the driver's seat and getting his laptop, bag and camera from the backseat. The ice cream in the container he had bought to drown his sorrows has all but melted completely, so Jaskier disposes of it in the nearest bin. Just another piece of shit to add to the massive dump his day has been so far. He turns his feet towards home, leaving his car parked on the side of the road. It's not like he's going to need it to get to work in the morning anyway, and walking saves him the money for gas. With the way things have been going, he's going to need it, and there's not much danger of getting a ticket here. Chances are people will assume his car belongs to one of the small residential homes lining the lane. He doubts anyone would steal that pile of scrap metal either, and if they did it would be more of a blessing than anything else, really.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pavement is dark and speckled from the rain earlier that day, and grey clouds still hang heavy in the sky over the city. All in all the whole scenery is drab and depressing and doing nothing to improve Jaskier's mood as he drags his feet along the sidewalk. The falling-out he had with his boss earlier hangs over his head like a raincloud of its own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's true, Jaskier hasn't landed any significant or popular articles in a while, but it's not his fault that Valdo fucking Marx snatches up all the good scoops and he is left with downtown grocery shop robberies and minor car accidents like the one he came across earlier, banalaties no one buys a paper for anymore thanks to free online magazines. The editor in chief had told him in no uncertain words to find something worth writing about or not bother showing up again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier kicks at a stray pebble and misses, almost losing his balance and landing flat on his arse on the wet pavement, but he catches himself on a fence - a dirty, wet fence. He cringes and wipes his hand on his jeans. When he looks back up, movement in the park beyond the fence catches his eye. Jaskier knows this park, he used to like going for strolls and taking pictures there before it was closed down and abandoned. No one should be in there, least of all that many people at once. Jaskier quickly checks that no one is around to see him and climbs over the fence. He slips and his feet slide off of the wet metal, but he eventually manages to heave himself over to the other side. He ducks down into the high grass and waits a few seconds before starting to creep closer to the group of people who are gathered around what Jaskier remembers to be a small body of water. He subconsciously readies his camera, all the while trying not to lose his footing on the overgrown terrain. Trespassing isn't exactly going to be the next big scoop, but Jaskier gets the feeling there is more going on here. He is proven right as he moves around a tree and a couple of vehicles come into view. Most of them are nondescript regular motorcars, but a black van labelled 'Private Ambulance' draws his attention. A couple of figures in white overalls are loading a stretcher into the back. Jaskier can't make out any details from where he's crouching behind a thick, old tree, but he's pretty sure the dark shape on top of it is a body bag. He shudders, more in excitement than apprehension, he tells himself, as he raises his camera and snaps a picture just before one of the figures closes the van's doors. He can't get a good look at the other people gathered around the other side of the pond and curses silently under his breath. There is another tree a couple of metres away, but the grass and weeds in the space in-between don't grow as high as at the edge of the park and Jaskier is apprehensive about leaving his cover. If he is discovered he's not only going to have to get rid of the photos, but would also probably have to answer some very uncomfortable questions that he doesn't have good answers to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But good photos sometimes require some risk, so he makes up his mind to leave his hiding spot. He leaves his bag and laptop case behind and tries to move as inconspicuously as possible, all the while keeping his eyes trained on the moving figures. It looks like they are preparing to leave, he'll have to hurry if he wants to get a few shots that are worth anything. In his eagerness he doesn't pay attention to his footing and yelps in surprise when a patch of earth comes loose and slides away from under his sole, taking his foot with it. This time he does fall on his arse, with enough of a racket to alert anyone in the vicinity. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jaskier curses when he sees faces turn his way and scrambles to his feet, praying that his camera didn't take any damage as he snatches it from the ground. It's covered in mud, just like his backside undoubtedly is judging from the cold dampness already seeping through the fabric of his jeans and his boxer shorts. It feels disgusting and uncomfortable, but Jaskier has other worries right now. Like grabbing his stuff and getting the fuck out of here. He makes it to the tree he left his things behind and moves to turn and run, when he is roughly shoved up against the bark, his left arm twisted painfully behind his back and a weight presses against him from behind. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shit</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>'Drop the camera,' a voice snarls at his back. He hesitates, but obliges with a wince at another sharp twist of his arm. He tries to glance over his shoulder at the person pinning him to the tree, but all he can make out is a blur of dark hair, light skin and the edge of a dark grey coat. He lets himself be steered away from the tree - not that he has much of a choice, whoever has a hold on him is </span>
  <em>
    <span>strong</span>
  </em>
  <span> - and to the other side of the murky water, towards the waiting vehicles. An attractive woman with her curly hair pulled back into a tight ponytail raises her eyebrows at him with a scrutinising glare, and Jaskier is suddenly very aware of how pathetic he must look with the seat of his trousers covered in muck and being manhandled across the clearing like a child that's been caught peeping. Well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is roughly shoved into the backseat of a silver car and finally gets a good look at the man who-- wait a second, has he just been </span>
  <em>
    <span>arrested</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Oh, that's just </span>
  <em>
    <span>great</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door is shut next to him loudly and he tries to peer outside without being too obvious about it, sizing up the plain-clothes officer who is now in a heated discussion with the woman from earlier, gesturing wildly and violently while she just stands there with her arms crossed, clearly unimpressed with her colleague’s outburst. The man has dark hair cropped close to his skull and the stubble on his face gives him a ragged sort of appearance that is only underlined by the two thin scars tracing down from his forehead and onto his cheek on the side of his face that is currently turned towards Jaskier. His face is round and full and reaching an impressive shade of red as he throws his arm out towards the car Jaskier is sat in. He’s yelling so loudly now that Jaskier can make out some words even through the closed doors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘--can’t deal with this shit!’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By ‘this shit’ he probably means the unlucky journalist that stumbled onto his crime scene. Jaskier cringes. The choleric reaction doesn’t bode well for him</span>
  <em>
    <span> at all</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Not that anything that happened today had boded well, for that matter. He just hadn’t expected things to </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually </span>
  </em>
  <span>go downhill even farther.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shouting outside the car subsides and he sees the man stomping off somewhere while the attractive woman visibly heaves a sigh and makes her way over to the driver’s side of the car. She doesn’t even acknowledge Jaskier when she gets in and starts the engine, ignoring his protests as she pulls out of the park and onto the road. She finally cracks after several minutes of incessant ranting when Jaskier is saying ‘I have rights, you know?’ for the umpteenth time - he lost count himself, to be honest - and shoots him an exasperated look in the rearview mirror.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Yes, you do,’ she says, silencing Jaskier with a raise of her hand when he draws air to speak again, ‘but you </span>
  <em>
    <span>also</span>
  </em>
  <span> broke into a classified crime scene, the location and mere existence of which, as the name suggests, should have been </span>
  <em>
    <span>classified</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You were caught taking photos of said crime scene with a professional camera. We’re going to have to ask you some questions.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier feels a pang in his chest at the mention of his camera, he hopes that it hasn’t suffered too much damage and he’ll still be able to retrieve it, given he gets out of this before it’s nicked by someone else passing through or, gods beware, confiscated. Along with his crappy laptop and his writing programme that camera is not only his livelihood, but also a piece of his heart, and an enormous chunk of his bank account should he have to replace it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Look, I was only there by coincidence, this is all a big understanding.’ he tries, but gets no reaction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shifts in his seat, trying to catch the driver’s eye again, but she’s gone back to concentrating on navigating them through the late afternoon traffic and is ignoring him once again. Jaskier doesn’t feel he has quite enough energy left for annoying her into talking again, so he leans back and tries to ignore his damp bottom and his aching shoulder as he watches the city speed by through the car window.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When they stop in front of the police building it’s almost dark out and a biting chill has set in that hits Jaskier’s wet clothes uncomfortably when he gets out of the car at the woman’s command. He still doesn’t know her name, he realises. Don’t police officers usually introduce themselves? Like, on principle? The guy who caught him hadn’t done that either, he notes. Maybe he’ll be able to use that to his advantage. Violation of protocol or something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He follows her at her beckoning, shivering as they cross the car park.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The uniformed officer who pats him down when they get inside cringes when he reaches the soiled patch on his back. Jaskier keeps his face impassive, but internally he cringes right back. He's wet, he's cold and he's miserable, and he's found himself in one hell of a sticky situation, figuratively and literally. He shifts on his legs to try and dislodge some of the soaked fabric from where it's stuck to his skin, but the attempt is futile. He yearns for a hot shower.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's led through a mostly empty corridor into a small room. Fluorescent lights flick on above him as he enters, revealing a white table with two uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs on either side. The female officer gestures for him to sit down in one and he obliges, increasingly cranky and increasingly tired.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>'Wait here.' she tells him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier narrows his eyes at her retreating back. Very funny. As if he's got a choice. He can't exactly waltz out of the station without bringing more shit raining down on him, and he's already got enough of that to drown in, thank you very much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least he's not handcuffed. He drums his fingers on the table, looking around the small room, but not finding anything of interest. There is a narrow window in the wall to his left, but it's so high up that he'd have to stand on his tiptoes to be able to look through. Not that he'd see much, anyway, the glass is frosted and textured with little bumps and grooves all over that form a wavy sort of pattern. Jaskier can't think of a reason why the window would be there in the first place. Certainly not for fresh air, it's too small to properly air out the room and besides, Jaskier is pretty sure it's air conditioned because there is a cool breeze coming from somewhere and now he isn't just cold anymore, he's </span>
  <em>
    <span>freezing</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't know how long he's been waiting for. When the door finally opens again it's neither the man nor the woman from before, but someone completely different. To Jaskier's dismay the man who enters the room doesn't look any less grumpy than his arresting officer, though, and he groans internally. He prepares himself to put on his most charming and innocent front. If he plays it right, maybe this will be over quickly, he'll get off with a warning and his boss will never hear of this. Jaskier is pretty sure he can kiss his job goodbye for good if he starts beef with the local CID.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hope starts waning when Mr. Grumpy Face the second sits down at the table opposite him without so much as a word of greeting. He flips open a narrow folder that he's brought with him and glares down at the paper inside like it personally offended him somehow. Jaskier watches him silently, waiting for an opening, but the man just keeps glaring at his papers, shuffling through them for what feels like an eternity. His scowl never loosens and Jaskier can see the tension in his jaw. He takes in the crisp white shirt stretching over broad shoulders. Strands of long, silvery hair fall onto them loosely from beneath a half-updo. He lets his gaze wander to the rolled-up sleeves exposing strong forearms. A wristwatch with a new-looking leather band. Short, clean fingernails. A narrow silver ring catches the light when the man shifts his hands on the table and Jaskier follows the movement with his eyes. It's almost hypnotising.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>'Name?'</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier is startled when he is suddenly addressed. His brain feels empty, the exhaustion of the day is finally creeping up on him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>'Sorry?' he says dumbly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A frustrated sigh. 'Your name. What's your name?' </span>
</p><p>
  <span>'Oh, um. Julian Alfred Pankratz.'</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man scribbles something on his paper, then lifts his gaze to look at him, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>holy shit</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes are golden and sharp, and it feels like they are staring right through the emptiness in Jaskier's head at the back of his skull. All he can do is stare back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He only realises he's been zoning out again when a gruff 'Hey!' snaps him out of it. Jaskier shakes his head. He must be more tired than he's realised.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>'Are you all right?' Something like concern colours the deep rumble of the man's voice, or maybe Jaskier's just imagining that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>'Yeah, yeah. I'm fine.' he says. 'What were you saying, Mr… uh, Detective..?'</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another sigh, this time more exasperated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>'Detective Inspector Rivia. I was </span>
  <em>
    <span>saying </span>
  </em>
  <span>that we need to fill out this form, and then I'm going to need a statement from you on what you were doing at the crime scene. Understood?'</span>
</p><p>
  <span>'Yes,' Jaskier says, 'thank you.'</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The detective inspector looks at him like he's short of a marble, one eyebrow raised, eyes scanning Jaskier's face with mild alarm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>'For giving me your name, I mean.' Jaskier hurries to clarify. He doesn't want to end up having to go through drug tests or a psych evaluation right now just because his mouth was faster than his brain yet again. 'Your colleagues weren't exactly that forthcoming.'</span>
</p><p>
  <span>'Hm.' The DI looks back down at his papers. 'I'll need your contact details.'</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier pulls himself together and does his best to answer every question diligently, his grand scheme to charm the socks off the officer forgotten with his increasing fatigue. He just wants to get home at this point.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they finally finish Jaskier feels like he could fall asleep right then and there. How late is it anyway? He perks up a little when Detective Inspector Rivia hands him his bag and camera as he sees him off through the station's front doors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>'We've confiscated your memory card, but the rest should all be there.' he explains.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier's heart sinks again. He'd had some really nice shots on there that he had been planning to upload to his website.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>'The whole card? Couldn't you have, like, just deleted the pictures?'</span>
</p><p>
  <span>'No. Don't hang around any more crime scenes.'</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And with that Jaskier is left on his own, without his car and who knows how far from his flat. He lets his shoulders sag with a heavy sigh and starts digging through his bag for his phone. The time on the display reads 7.13 PM when it lights up. It feels much later to Jaskier. He runs a quick search for the nearest bus station and the route to his district. He's lucky enough to catch the next bus a couple of minutes later and finally ascends the stairs to his apartment after a half-hour ride and a short walk. He's relieved to meet no one in the hallway, he's not in the mood for gossip, and isn't that a first?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He drops his belongings on the floor as soon as he closes the door behind him, except for the camera, which he delicately places on the kitchen table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He kicks off his shoes and leaves the rest of his clothing in a pile on the bathroom floor. He doesn't even bother brushing his teeth, just drags himself to the bedroom and lets himself drop onto the bed with a groan, pulling the covers over his head and burrowing into the soft pillow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't fall asleep as easily as he thought he would, and he tosses and turns for a while, worries, questions and images of the day he's had chasing each other in his head. What exactly was it that he had stumbled upon? Why was it such a big deal if he knew that a body had been found in an abandoned park? Wouldn't it be all over the media soon anyway? The word 'classified' pops into his mind and he tries to figure out what it means in this context, but he's too tired to think clearly and the thought is washed away by the memory of a golden glare and the flash of silver. When sleep finally does find Jaskier it's fitful and restless.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A moment of silence for Jaskier's ice cream, please.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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